Howl
by Missing Triforce
Summary: When you face the beast within, you better make the right deal with it, lest you lose entire. John bargains for Sherlock's life. AU one-shot, werewolf!John. Angst, rated T for intensity


**Hello! It's been a bit, hasn't it? Just a note that this story is me attempting stream of consciousness, so the grammar is very wonky. Please review at the end!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Story was also inspired by Florence & the Machine's song "Howl."**

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><p><em>Howl: a<em> BBC Sherlock _fanfic_

It begins with falling.

Well, actually with running, running after Sherlock, running in the midnight of Regent's Park, running with swmock sounds as they teeter along the mud of man-made ponds, running under dingy skies with a hidden full moon and even more hidden stars, running under splotches of amber light between the utter blackness, running amid grass and bridges and sandbox, running too slow so as to lose sight of the tall blotch of curly ink he was following, running into shrubbery and under a clump of trees, and _then_ it was falling, foot skidding, mulch springing, falling face forward as something large and furred collides into his back.

Hands reach out to bounce him into a roll (a dog squeals) and eyes roll to see a wolf with massive, glistening jaws bite into his ankle. _Fucking Jesus_. John screams for Sherlock and kicks the dog in the face with his other foot, at the same time feeling the teeth sink into him, the sharp sting of pierced flesh, and blood must be to coming up, must be. The yellow eyes yelp and let go and spin away, but suddenly John practically forgets the dog because his leg is kind of on fire. And by "kind of" he means that he's lying on the ground and his back arching upwards and then his hands death-grip his ankle and _fucking hell_ where is Sherlock, god where is he? John needs a hospital something, anything and fuck, finally, because then Sherlock's voice is next to his ear asking "John, what happened? John?" and the warmth of his face is next to his and the solidness of his hands and then his elbows are hauling John upwards. (Scramble, Watson, scramble!) trip a little, there's the ground. "Sherlock, hospital, wolf bite, could be infected, please."

One arm is around Sherlock's shoulders and the other is fisted into the man's scarf as they hobble and John tries to close his eyes against the pain, concentrating on moving forward and fuck, his foot feels like it must be charcoal by now because, really, FIRE EVERYWHERE, and climbing up. Each cell must be mutating. He spreads his hand against Sherlock's chest as far as it will go and finds Sherlock's heartbeat hammering away, God he has to say something because Sherlock's going mental and, wait, has Sherlock been talking the entire time and yes, yes he has been, and "Sherlock, would you please shut up and flag a taxi. I need a rabies shot. I'm fine: well I'm not fine, it hurts."

Sherlock stops moving and John opens his eyes. The world can't decide if it wants to get blurry or become crystal and suddenly he's slumping and sleepy and let him just sleep through this, it will be better, won't it? Forward motion towards the cab that seems perpetually stationed at their door toddles on, the pain radiating upwards, farther, farther in little finger sparks. The shoulder is slipping from underneath him and he's free in the air and falling, oh no wait a soft landing against the cab seat and maybe now all will be soft and quiet, but Sherlock's hitting his face and speaking loudly and oh God what if he's bored, what will John think of to entertain him this time, "John! John, don't fall asleep!" but he is boneless and floating and nothing is real, not even Sherlock, and his eyes roll into the black.

IiIiIiIiI

"Just come home safe."

John's eyes snap open from the dream. What was he dreaming? There's a wetness on the corner of his lips from drool and he swipes it away quickly, before Sherlock knows, Sherlock will see and probably not care, but it was a bit embarrassing after all, drooling on pillows on the...couch? He is on the couch, back squeaking against the leather as he turns to see his foot swollen and straining against bandages, propped up on the armrest. It's still night from the silvery darkness outside the window, the moon must be out somewhere to make the night almost as crystal clear as noon. John hears feet padding to his side and turns his head to see Sherlock approaching, blue silk dressing gown fanning out to enlarge his thin form.

Sherlock's dark (in this light anyway) eyes scan John, his curls in a disarray, his left hand twitching a bit. The detective practically glides forward (God, he must be on some strong pain pills) and sits on the coffee table to face John. A thermometer is produced from somewhere (table? pocket? should he now check pockets for mercury stains?) and easily slipped under John's lips and he willingly lets it slid under his tongue, taking a deep breath through his nose to stop any gagging reflex. Sherlock silently reaches for John's hand and untangles it from the other (John had woven them together in sleep, a habit since childhood, since sleeping had meant escaping yelling and throwing and the clink of drink). Sherlock's long fingers find John's pulse point easily, pressing down into the flesh and John can practically see the ticking in Sherlock's eyes.

John breathes again and closes his eyes, relaxation washing over him. He feels so tired, so exhausted, everything is heavy. He can hear Sherlock breathing beside him too, gently and steadily exhaling. "I'm fine, Sherlock. Go back to sleep," he murmurs around the thermometer.

Two minutes pass and Sherlock takes the thermometer out, raising it against the window to see the tiny lettering. "No, you're not," he says, the deep rumble of his voice a bit startling, "You've got a temperature of 103 and your pulse is going haywire."

John's eyes snap open. He feels relaxed. He feels fine. In fact, he's practically asleep. He doesn't feel feverish. "What?" he says, the snap of his voice shattering the moment's stillness. "That's impossible. Is your thermometer cracked?"

Sherlock's head turns sharply towards him, eyes glinting. "No, it isn't. Something's wrong with you. But what is the question." Sherlock's manic now, putting a hand to John's forehead and the other against his own. "You feel hot too. Do you feel lucid at all? Sit up and tell me if you feel dizzy. What is the latest experiment you've objected to?"

Anger is boiling up as he looks at the man. He is the doctor, he would know if he had a bloody fever or not. "I know the symptoms of a fever, Sherlock, and I don't have one."

"But John-"

"Piss off to bed!" John shouts, sitting up suddenly and Sherlock startles backwards.

"John-"

"GO!" Sherlock's standing on the other side of the room and John's got a book in his hand, an old paperback novel Harry gave him ages ago. If he's loud enough Mrs. Hudson will wake, but all he can think of is how angry Sherlock is making him. God, that man was so annoying and fretful and stubborn and should really fucking sleep. John has to make him sleep and he tries to get up and pain explodes from his foot, burning up to his knee and jumps to his middle in one bound. Fuck.

"Go away, Sherlock!" John shouts. This was his fault, his fault, the bloody wanker wanting to chase stupid fucking criminals. John's stumbling about and Sherlock is still and above him, waiting to see what this outburst is about. John manages to stand for about a second before he's toppling over the coffee table and into Sherlock's arms and oh god, that man must have taken a shower, his warm skin smell is delicious in its potency. John puts his arms around Sherlock's neck for balance and is grateful for the excuse to put his nose so close to Sherlock, the man's heart and lungs are going rapid-fire and John wants to lick him, but he digs his nails into Sherlock's skin instead, fighting all the urges.

Sherlock is attempting to carry him back to the couch, but fuck him: he's not a bloody cripple and anger slams into him hard (something's wrong, something's off, he's not usually like this). He's pushing Sherlock away with all his might. He lands on the floor in an explosion of pain all over, god his legs and neck feel like they are breaking and his arms shortened into oblivion, pain pain pain, screaming and Sherlock yelling, closing his eyes against all this, whatever this is. Something must be slamming down onto the bridge of his nose and sliding down and outward, there's no crunch of cartilage though, and his teeth are shrilly aching and god _his very eye sockets hurt_.

But then his body stops screeching and senses assault him: Sherlock's smell, increase in temperature, his body's dimensions feel all wonky, sight limited to black and white, sounds of cars and breathing and beating and crickets in the park, creaking on floorboards, the ugly decomposition of corpses putrefying. John's head is jangling and he wants an anchor, a nice safe anchor to bite into, to hold him in place, perhaps something to eat too, something meaty and bloody and soft to sink his teeth in. Suddenly, a consciousness punches him in the face, his head snaps sideways with its metaphorical impact, a magical hunger roaring to life in his belly, a hurt, an insult stinging his cheek, revenge for ancient wrongs and unfairness smoldering in, breaking down defenses until that is all that's left really, what was there before this pain and hurt and burning plains of emotional agony? The only recourse was to lash out, strike, hit, punch, kick, bite, drag nails across flesh, tear apart limb from limb, destroy them, make them feel and understand exactly what they put him and his kind through.

Some insignificant was yelling really loudly, dancing about, trying to grab him. He would be the first. The first to be made to understand and feed his hunger.

But then John is back. Please God let this not be Sherlock, God no no no no no. You can't. Run, run, run away from everything because John Watson refuses to hurt Sherlock Holmes.

But that's all John Watson can do now before he's crushed utterly.

IiIiIiIiIiI

John's not stupid. He knows what he is. You wouldn't believe it, but what is left, despite how improbable...Yeah. And not only could it be dangerous, it was dangerous. There was proof enough last night and now stomach acid was burning his tongue with its taste and rabbit fur causing him to gag. A few memories flash like cannon fire in his mind, running into the park and finding the nearest food, the closest, easiest-to-get-thing with a heartbeat. John shakes his head, reaching up his (thankfully human) white hand to wipe the sick from his lips. The other hand is supporting him against the rough tree bark, its soft against his palm. And he's stark naked. Of course, his lip twitches, of course, he's stark bollock naked in the middle of Regent's Park on the grey morning, waiting for Sherlock to somehow (he will) find him.

He feels shaky all over, like after a nightmare, and hazy childhood memories of fantasy books keeping coming up murkily like underground smog (the creak of the Harry's door as he snuck into her room, the whorled wood under his fingers, the balancing act upon the chair to reach the fantasy encyclopedia she was keeping from him). Silver bullets, no, silver in general, is bad, also wolfsbane can burn. Full moon transformations, obvious wish to harm humanity. Hunt in packs. Loyal and brave and good mothers. John is in a small clump of trees and bushes with a little patch of pine needles enough for him to sit next to his sick. He gingerly sits, his tail bone aching (along with the rest of him really) from being extended, the ghost of the wolf body hanging over the human, the nerves re-directing signals and codes and which way to the arm now or that way to the leg, why weren't his ears and smell as sharp?

John leans his head back against the tree, closing his eyes to better un-boggle his senses. The wolf had an over-powering sense of smell and hearing, his now (though it should be normal to him, after 37 years of living with it. How could the wolf's be normal too after only one night?) human versions of those senses so dull (bored, John, BORED) in comparison. But his human vision races ahead of the wolf's, really much much better. Touch also, with such thin skin to feel everything, unfortunate in this case. God, he needs to sleep. He's so tired. Breath, breath, breath. A pinecone cracks somewhere.

John opens his eyes and huddles himself closer together, trying to better the visual of his predicament (in uni, George streaking across the lawn as a bet, to impress the American girls across the street, the utter, embarrassing whiteness of his skin, white as Sherlock's, John pushing aside the curtains a tad to watch). He breathes a shaky smile when Sherlock's hand is indeed the one pulling back the branches, his coat protecting his legs by getting snagged in the bushes instead. What does one say after turning into a werewolf and almost killing someone?

"Hello."

"Here." Sherlock is sweeping his gaze over John (and John's sick and John's tree) as the detective throws John his own coat (how is Sherlock even fitting in this small space: ah, he's bending over as he takes one step closer and now he's backing up and out). John catches the coat and stands once Sherlock is gone to fumble it on before whacking his way out of the clump of bushes closely guarding the tree like soldiers ("you are to stand in line for the next 30 minutes and if anyone moves we'll re-start the clock, are we clear?" "Sir, yes, sir").

But now he's out and standing beside Sherlock who immediately begins striding home with his long legs, which he infinitesimally slows to allow John to follow. The silence is a warring cocktail, tension and determined ease and purpose and agreed quiet, Sherlock wants to get back to the flat, back to a safety zone where he understands everything, every object, where he easily works out problems. Amusement bubbles up into John, at this weird circumstance, of course he's a bloody werewolf like out of a children's book because aren't they both really children (giggling at crime scenes at really awful puns of corpse and meat pies). But Sherlock isn't laughing at his joke, he seems a bit tense: awful thoughts of what if he's already concocted a containment facility and oh shit tonight might also be a full moon and suddenly John's putting his head down to purposeful strides because they need a plan.

They make it to the flat, John going in first and Sherlock right behind, resolutely shutting the door behind with the flat of his palm and splayed white fingers. "So," he begins. "Give me the facts."

John's standing in the middle of the living room in just Sherlock's coat to drown in and all he can think of is the obvious: "well, I'm a werewolf."

Sherlock's eyes narrow and mouth thins. "Obviously, John. But what are we going to do?"

John's annoyed now too, a result of his nerves about the moon and Sherlock's demand for answers he doesn't have. "I'd like a shower and clothes and a cup of tea, first. And then...when's the next moon?" (He dreads.)

"Tonight." (said with finality, like the French Revolution's guillotine, John remembers the sticky of the history books' pages and how medical doctors thought the head could still hear and see a few minutes after death).

"Fuck. Should we call Mycroft?"

Sherlock's in motion, forward past John to the computer on the table. "I don't know what he will do to you. We don't hold his only loyalty." _And he might take you somewhere, some lab, and you might never come out unless I break you out and then I don't know what we'll do because we'll be here again, wondering._ John can see Sherlock blowing these thoughts away with an upward flick of his hand as he sits down to type and search. "Go take your shower and get some clothes."

John thinks of Sherlock thinking before he turns to go and says, "Sherlock, I actually wanted to kill you. I couldn't control it: all I could do was force it away."

"It?"

"The wolf. It's not me...in there. When I transform tonight, we need a really excellent cage or something so I don't hurt you or anyone else."

"The one that bit you escaped from its cage."

Sherlock is silent after that, the phrase hanging there like a condemned man and John lets it swing there, twanging the rope with his exit.

IiIiIiIiIiI

From inside the sturdiest cage that Sherlock's vast network could find, behind several locked doors and bookcases guarding them, John's last thought amongst the pain is "no, not again, not Sherlock."

By the time the sun chases the moon away, the entire flat is trashed in wreckage and broken wood, twisted metal, shattered glassware and even a bent and broken fridge. John is gone.

He just keeps running.

IiIiIiIiIiI

He's out of central London when he wakes up at almost half past 4 in the afternoon, curled against a rotting wood fence bordering a small town and flat parkland. He's getting better at remembering what happened: he scared a poor child in Newbury Park, causing them to drop their flashlight and run, and there was that woman in Ingatestone who dropped her Tesco shopping at the sight of him, ragged in stolen trousers and jacket, a gash from somewhere on his shoulder and bits of dried leaves and sticks in his hair. He doesn't remember Baker Street or Sherlock, just the sound of wood breaking.

He steals trousers and a jacket from a clothesline before heading into town and exploring the shops. It turns out, as he found when he examined calendars in the little paper shop while eating a stolen cornish pastry from the tourist stupid enough to leave at his table while he went to the loo, that he had picked possibly the worst time ever to change into a werewolf. Literally. There were five days of full moons. Three more days to go. And then what? Turn himself into Mycroft? And never come out. But other people would be safe. Sherlock would be safe, even if he never saw him again.

It makes John's heart ache, but he asks around for a telephone anyway.

IiIiIiIiIiI

They get there too late.

Even as John hands the mobile back to the teenager who lent him one, he starts feeling a pulling in his stomach, a yearning, a tugging at his ribs. It's still sunset, for Christ's sake: the moon shouldn't even be up. But fifteen minutes later there it is against all the orange and yellow sky. He's standing in a field where Mycroft's helicopter is coming, John can see it in the sky, slowly preparing to hover down. Too slowly, too slowly.

John feels rage burning his stomach, rage at Mycroft for being so slow, for being so stupid to bring Sherlock with this mission. He can see him there in the seats, the consulting detective's face laced with the glare of the yellow sky against the shine of the window, blocking his expression, but John knows his general outline in any case.

God damn it.

Suddenly there's a slice of pain in the back of his knees that sends him falling onto all fours on the ground. His whole frame starts shaking as he tries not to vomit, as firey darts race across his skin all over, his ankle becoming impossibly hot. He screams as his bones snap like twigs, rearranging themselves into a wolf's shape, flattening his skull, shrinking his organs and brain, yellowing his eyes, squeezing his entire being into another shape. But then everything is fine and he's smelling the wind, the scent of grass and weeds and the deafening boom of a helicopter landing and he is running again, running away despite the incomprehensible yells that chase him, the feet that chase him, the other weak dogs that chase him (how dare they betray him, he'll tear them, he'll rip them), he runs because that is his only option, the strange voice in his head telling not to stand and fight because it might hurt something that's called "Sherlock."

IiIiIiIiIiI

John doesn't understand it anymore, none of it. The next time he's awake, he's human already, even clothed.

Also on a rooftop.

It's a small city, brick buildings everywhere, descending in height until they stop suddenly and John can see the ocean and a pier with shops and carnival rides. If it's dawn or sunset he can't tell, perhaps dawn since he'd been heading in a easterly direction to begin with.

There's also three helicopters chasing him, trying to surround him on one building.

He remembers flashes of the night, mostly running, his paws aching, his smaller heart pounding, moments of stillness, of hiding in bushes, Sherlock's voice calling out, the voice coming nearer and fading away as he dashes, the 'swifpfft' of tranquilizer darts whizzing past him in the dark, the feeling of a growl in his throat, the salty tang of blood in his mouth (whose? it wasn't his), being human again and brushing bits of leaves out of his hair, the gash from yesterday healed.

His limbs aren't obeying him. He's conscious, he's human, but the wolf is still in control. Perhaps this will just be another flash of memory. Already it begins to fade:

He jumps to another rooftop and another and another, all in a row, strange architecture this is. The wolf is pushing his muscles, combining their strength for leaping, leaping distances Sherlock's long legs would admire. Scrapping around with dexterous hands (he used to thread needles with these eyes and with these hands, thread the needle and then stitch people up in small, precise stitches) as he nearly falls to his death, but pulls himself up at last. The helicopters shoot at him from three corners. Seeing an open chimney big enough for him. He's caught in a dark space, wiggling his torso back and forth until he falls with a clunk to the floor. Someone is screaming. Officials shouting, men in black chasing. The window is cold, imbibing the chill of the air, the glass nearly frosted. He's on the streets. The uneven cobblestones hurt against his bare feet. Where is he going? He'll be locked against the ocean that way. No way is he going to swim to Russia. The wolf swerves north, back to the fields. He passes an old cathedral, spires sending prayers to heaven. He's losing them. They're losing him.

He hears the pound of his footsteps against the road, it's pounding in his ears like a heartbeat (are they human ears or a wolf's now? He'll never know. He can't tell), the sound of his lunging footsteps a drum echoed by the drumming of another thing. The 'rut, rut, rut' of a spinning thing in the air. He turns to see, he turns to watch. There's someone desperate there, a pale face against the yellow of dawn, his eyes are blue with color and emotion, desperation exploding over, one hand holding the metal of the doorway and another reaching out towards him. Brown curls are being blown about, the high collar of his jacket whipping back and forth too, a blue scarf around his neck. He seems familiar. He seems lost.

The wolf turns his head and continues running.

IiIiIiIiIiIiI

Eventually, all that remains of John Watson is this:

They are on the couch together, warm under a blanket, Sherlock on his back and John on his stomach on top of Sherlock's stomach, both too contented to figure how whose legs are whose. Sherlock is dozing, one set of fingers sifting through John's hair and the other wrapped around, holding them together. John's arms are crossed over Sherlock's chest and his chin is resting on his crossed arms: he is almost asleep too. But then he murmurs something out of one of his dreams, one of those things he never really intended to say, but it happens now to establish this as an unreality. "I'm always waiting for you to disappear on me."

Sherlock lets out a small breath of amusement, "Why?"

"You seem too fantastic to be real."

"Perhaps I am. Perhaps you are."

"Perhaps," John mimics.

"Perhaps."


End file.
